You Must Know
by drunkenvicar
Summary: For the hundredth – the thousandth, the ten thousandth, will it ever become more bearable? – time, she is overcome with the horror of the truth. Cora's contemplations after being summoned to the Dower House to talk to Dr. Clarkson.


For the hundredth – the thousandth, the ten thousandth, will it ever become more bearable? – time, she is overcome with the horror of the truth.

_Lady Sybil was going to die. _

Sybil _has_ died.

It makes her want to curse, to shout, to destroy something of great sentimental value. But she lacks the strength, mentally and physically, at the moment. It takes all of her energy and willpower to remain upright in her mother-in-law's sitting room, to maintain at least some semblance of composure, even as she lets her head fall back, presses her eyes shut, a weak defense against the inevitable onslaught of tears.

She is only marginally aware of Dr. Clarkson leaving, and at first, barely aware of Robert's arms around her. He pulls her close, and she feels a vague sense of comfort for the first time since that horrible night, and does not think of not letting him continue to hold her. As she grasps at his back, her gloved fingers desperate, she feels his silent tears, warm on her neck.

She cannot judge how much time passes, how long they stand there, clinging to one another, and later, she won't remember what she – or he – might have said to decline his mother's perfunctory offer that they stay for tea, nor will she recall the walk to the car.

When they are seated in the back seat, however, the atmosphere shifts, her bereft daze alleviates, ever so slightly.

She is acutely aware that now, the two of them are together, almost alone, and something has changed, and something needs to be said, or done. She takes a deliberate breath, closes her eyes. But when she opens her eyes, and lets her gaze stray over the seat, she does not – cannot – look up, where she might catch his eyes, but at the leather of the bench, the polite space between them. His hand is resting right next to his leg, awkwardly, and she knows that he will not offer it to her – not explicitly, assertively, he will tread carefully, now.

She knows, as his tempered face from the library this morning flashes through her mind.

Because she knows, her hand slips under his, gripping it firmly.

They say nothing, and studiously avoid eye contact, but they hold hands across the seat as the chauffeur drives out of the village.

The Abbey is in sight when, with trepidation and a peculiar air of ambivalence in her voice, considering everything that's happened, Cora turns her head halfway to Robert – she's been staring blankly out the window, and now she looks straight ahead – and comments, "Your mother put him up to it, to say it like that, to us."

It is only then that she looks directly at him, sees him raise his eyebrows uncertainly, reluctantly.

Tentatively, unsure of her sentiment, he asks, "Do you believe him, though?"

"I suppose – I don't see any reason not to."

He nods.

"I do feel," he pauses, swallowing audibly and holding his eyes closed for a moment before speaking again – at once haltingly, rushed, unsure, determined. "I do feel terribly guilty, and that doesn't change anything, but – well – even if the worst was inevitable, it doesn't excuse – Clarkson has probably got a point about Tapsell – and I –"

"I know."

She only manages a whisper, and cannot look at him any longer, but when they both fall silent, just as the car slows to a stop at the front door, and he tightens his grip on her hand, she returns the gesture.

They separate to exit the car, and then once again must figure out what to do with themselves, with one another.

"I – er – might you care for a walk?" Robert asks, and Cora makes herself look at him, places her hand lightly on the heavy black fabric of his upper arm in consolation.

"I'd prefer a rest, I think."

He nods, sobered, but her thumb ghosts over his arm, the subtlest of caresses.

"Might we talk, later?" she suggests.

"Of course."

Their eyes meet ever so briefly, in understanding, her hand slides down his arm, and their fingers brush together, entangling for a fleeting moment – in temporary good-bye, and tentative promise – before she turns, with an air of self-assurance she certainly does not feel, to walk inside.

* * *

The window is cold against her temple as she sits on the window sweat, eyes unfocussed, concentrating on taking deep, controlled breaths.

Later, many weeks later, when she regains the ability to smile – and even laugh – at the darkly ironic, she will muse that, though it _wasn't_ in fact a lecture on marital harmony, the Dowager had clearly engineered the whole episode in order to bring about marital harmony.

_Sans_ lecture.

She doesn't think anything, right now, though she tries.

_What is there to say to Robert?_

For they cannot go on like this, and for the first time, she sees clearly that she does not want to, and is uninterested in pretending she does.

With a jolt, she remembers apologizing to him that night for not trusting his judgement – first in the hallway, kissing him soundly, even though the doctor was standing right there.

_The damn doctor. _

And a half hour later, she had already turned the lights off when he slipped into her room, but it made it that much easier for them to find each other in the middle of the bed, and she apologized again.

"I _am _sorry, darling," she whispered, so close to his lips that they were kissing almost before she finished speaking. Deliberately, she pulled him on top of her, and his hand was tugging her nightdress up her thigh as he teased her about being grandparents, and she laughed.

All of it makes her stomach turn now: the repentant suppliance of her apologies, the joy in her laugh, the comfortable, familiar pleasure sought after an already long night, the peaceful sleep she enjoyed, briefly, before being woken.

_Lady Sybil was going to die._

* * *

She cannot remember the last time she knocked on the dressing room door. It's simply unnecessary.

Yet it is almost time to go down for dinner, she is dressed, O'Brien has left, and she decides that she does not care to wait and see if Robert will come to talk to her. She remains unsure whether she is ready to _forgive_ him, or even talk to him for any length of time, but there is a nagging, inexplicable, and perhaps irrational fear starting to grow that she will wait too long, that she will make him wait too long.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she knocks, quietly but firmly, then steps back.

They look at each other calmly after he opens the door, but the calm dissipates as the seconds pass and neither of them finds the right words.

Cora opens her mouth, but then closes it, the weight of all of the bitter, spiteful, unpleasant words that have passed between them recently impeding her ability to choose suitable words for something that may become reconciliation, even after the odd peace forged, briefly, first in the Dower House and then in the motor.

It seems as if it has been much longer than it has been when she is almost shaken by Robert's quiet, gentle suggestion. "Might I escort you to dinner?"

"Yes – yes, that would be lovely."

She almost smiles, and so does he.

They do an awkward sort of dance as he moves to walk into the room, and she backs up to let him, and then they forget what they intended to do, and just look at each other, then away, again.

Once more, Robert brings them back to the task at hand.

"Shall we?" he asks, offering her his arm.

And again, they almost smile at each other as she accepts it, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow.

He starts to walk toward the door leading into the hall, but Cora finally regains her sense of purpose.

"Wait."

His face is all concern, which, curiously, encourages her.

"Perhaps," she starts slowly, "perhaps you don't want to ask again if you can move back in here, but I know you would like nothing more."

"Cora," he brings his free hand to cover hers where she softly grips his arm. "If you don't want me to, I –"

"You might as well." When he seems to be dubious, she clarifies, quietly but truthfully. "I want you to."

"If you're sure."

"I think," she continues, slowly, determined to say all that she planned, "that it would be good if we properly talk. Not about what has happened, or what we've said, but perhaps about" – she falters – "about Sybil."

Her eyes close, and she is sure he can see the warm, silent tears sneaking out over her cheeks.

She bites her bottom lip, concentrates on breathing.

And then he drops the arm upon which her hand has been resting and he is embracing her again, as he did in the Dower House, clinging to her and allowing her to cling to him, their tears intermingling.


End file.
